


Southern Comfort

by ShinSolo



Category: 30 Seconds to Mars
Genre: Culture Shock, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinSolo/pseuds/ShinSolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The more he craved, the less he ate. The less he ate, the more he craved. And with every day that passed, he became more and more obsessed, until he reached the point in which he could no longer think of anything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Southern Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** Hungry
> 
> **Note:** Contains over 100 food items/references.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** All food items mentioned are real. I have ate every one of them from time to time -- except for one that just . . . no way. . . I'll give you kudos if you can figure out which one I refuse to touch. -laughs- If you would take bits and pieces of every one in the south and stitch them together, then make a movie about their life in which Jared was cast as lead . . . You might actually come up with this. But other than that, this is 100% Fiction.

  
Some of his earliest memories of his grandmother were of her in the kitchen cooking. He could still remember the way her hands had rolled out the biscuit dough and how her fingers had sprinkled flour over the wooden counter tops each morning to keep the dough from sticking. He could still see the beads of sweat that gathered at her temples and the back of her neck as she leaned over the hot stove, and the way her apron strings always managed to come untied no matter how often she tightened them. He could still hear the sound the eggs made when poured into a hot and awaiting skillet. He could still smell the way her house smelled every morning, like fried tomatoes and bacon grease, like grits and melted butter, like homemade buttermilk biscuits and milk gravy. And not a day passed in which he did not wake up from his dreams with hunger pains that he knew all the food in California could not touch, hunger pains that made his grapefruit or occasional protein bar harder to swallow than even the bitterest of medications.  
  
“You’re going to be late if you don’t leave within the next ten minutes,” his brother would call up the stairs, and he would soon find himself lost among the steady purr of everyday life. But no matter where he was, or what he was doing, the noon hour always seemed to bring its own set of distractions.  
  
Once again the seemingly incurable and phantom like hunger pains would rise inside of him, bringing with them cravings for hand breaded fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and brown gravy. The warm, salty air from the coast made him think of country cured ham and turnip greens. The sound of rain beating against the windows of the studio reminded him of white beans and pork fat boiling on the stove. And several times he almost slipped and placed an order for fried okra, squash casserole, or succotash while at lunch on the strip.  
  
“You’re going to waste away to nothing if you don’t start eating more,” his brother would say, his voice concealing a hint of concern as he pushed the plate closer toward him. And once again he would catch himself faking a smile as he forced down another bite of a veggie sandwich or alfalfa, green olive, and non-fat cream cheese pitta. All of the various combinations of raw avocado, organic cucumbers, and assorted lettuces that he had once held in high regard began to taste exactly the same to him – like saw dust and wilted Johnson grass.  
  
One afternoon, while walking across town, he could have sworn he smelled pulled pork barbeque and fried bologna, but no matter how hard he searched he could not locate the source. He spent the rest of the day dreaming about the feeling of cornbread and buttermilk melting on his tongue, the taste of chicken pot pie and fried catfish, the sound of popcorn popping on the stove, the smell of microwaved banana Moon Pies and melted ice-cream, and the sight of the crimson stains on the counter tops from homemade red velvet cakes.  
  
The more he craved, the less he ate. The less he ate, the more he craved. And with every day that passed, he became more and more obsessed, until he reached the point in which he could no longer think of anything else.  
  
Not even his dreams were sacred anymore. At night he would toss and turn until his bed sheets would fall to the floor – sweat drenched and tangled – his dreams haunted by distorted fragments of his childhood.  
  
Some nights he would find himself sitting at one of the old splintered table in one of those small town dinners, surrounded by the unmistakable aroma of chicken and dumplings, coffee baked ham, and fried venison. In front of him, the table would be covered with steaming plates of corn on the cob, brown sugar boiled carrots, lima beans, and black-eyed peas with fresh slices of Vidalia onion. But before he could pick up a fork, the waitress would come out with her tray loaded with fresh baked apple, pecan, and sweet potato pies. And every night, he would wake up the very moment his lips closed around a spoonful of homemade banana pudding, without even the chance to wash it down with a tall glass of sweet tea.  
  
Other nights the dreams were more sour than sweet, dreams filled with the smell of fried chicken gizzards, the almost snot-like consistency of raw chicken livers, the churning in his stomach when he first learned the nature of pork rinds, and all the other aspects of southern cuisine that had never failed to make him cringe. And even after he had woken up, he would still be able to see the face of the elderly black woman who had often helped his mother look after his brother and he as a child, skinning pickled pig’s feet by the sink, serving him bowl after bowl of chitlins in broth, urging him to eat just one more bite of the hog’s head cheese sandwich she had made for his lunch.  
  
“Are you okay?” his brother would ask the next morning, silently observing the dark circles under his eyes and the way his hip bones seemed to stick out just a little more than they had the week before. And no matter how good of a liar he might have considered himself, he began to find it increasingly harder to avoid his brother’s worried eyes watching him at meal times, following him up the stairs, studying him as he slept.  
  
However, without allowing himself the comfort of confiding in someone, he began seeking a release from his mind in something else – the salt of barroom peanuts and the burn of straight whiskey. He had never been fond of drinking, and at first he had only planned on making it a one time event, a casual after work stop before he headed home, but one thing generally tends to lead to another – especially when alcohol is concerned – and his after work stops soon became midday and even morning stops, an endless array of George Dickel nights and Jack Daniel’s mornings, with the occasional lunch meeting with Elijah Craig. But no matter how many times he found himself stumbling out of the backseat of another yellow checked car and into his upstairs bedroom with the taste of Southern Comfort still lingering on his breath, the kind of comfort it offered was always short lived. And as soon as the buzz died down, the headache would resurface – bringing with them the worst of cravings that only Tennessee whiskey could.  
  
The first wave would come crashing down on top of him when the bitter taste of bile would remind him of the time he had caught a crawdad in the mud ditch behind his house and bit into it then and there – not realizing that the ones his mother had often given him had actually been boiled ahead of time. And when you were born in Louisiana, it is almost impossible to think of crawdads without also thinking of Tabasco, Frank’s Redhot, or good old fashioned Louisiana Hot Sauce, and the way that potent combination of cayenne chili peppers, vinegar, and water could clear your sinuses faster than any over the counter pharmacy drug. But after his stomach had completely betrayed him and sent him stumbling to the bathroom, he would rest his head on his the inside of his upper arm, leaning against the toilet seat in such a way that caused his sweat and puke matted hair to fall into his eyes. And between heaves, he would fix stare into the bowl of the toilet, comparing the consistency of what he had thrown up to some of the most popular dishes served in New Orleans. Most of the time, it would remind him of Conch Chowder – more liquid than solid, the faint golden amber traces of Southern Comfort the only color aside from those produced by the natural acids in his stomach. When he had managed to eat one of the mediocre, carbon-copy meals the bars he frequented served around dinner time, he would toss up what closer resembled crawfish ètouffèe floating in the water in dark clumps. He had never been a real big fan of any kind of ètouffèe, and just the mere thought of it made him wonder what he would have to eat in order to be able to throw up something closer to chicken sauce-piquante or jambalaya. And more often than not, when he finally did pass out on the bathroom floor, he would do so thinking about red beans and rice with boudin noir sausages, shrimp gumbo, or even pecan pralines and divinity.  
  
His friends were beginning to worry about him. They would stop by the house, offer to drive him to and from work, sit with him in the studio even when they didn’t have to be there. Even when he was passed out on the living room couch, drained of energy and hung-over from the night before and one too many shots of Knob Creek or Wile Turkey, he could hear their voices in faint whispers – talking to someone on the phone in what seemed like a foreign language, dropping his name in a heated argument with his brother. And when visions of macaroni and cheese, candied yams, and deviled eggs, would once again infiltrate his mind and cause him to stir or cry out in his sleep, he would feel a calm and gentle hand against his forehead, pushing his bangs out of his face and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead – a hand that was as familiar to him as the his own.  
  
And when no one else would dare step between him and the front door the night he decided to put an end to the constant cravings for good, his dark shades hiding his once brilliant eyes the same way his fedora concealed the fact that he had not bothered to do as much as run a brush through his hair in some time, and enough cash in his pocket to buy enough of that 100 proof blend of neutral grain spirits, peach, orange, vanilla, sugar and cinnamon, that he had found himself more and more addicted to with every trip he made to the bar on the corner of Franklin and North Vermont – it was the owner of those hands that finally spoke up.  
  
“Stay home with me,” his brother said as he put his hand on his jaw, turning his face so he had no choice but to look him in the eye. “Just this once, stay with me. Talk to me – with me. Let’s see if we can find another way . . .”  
  
A soft sigh escaped his lips as he leaned into his brother’s touch, his eyes shutting for a moment longer than a blink. And before he had a chance to tell him he had to go, that he couldn’t stay, he heard the noise he could not quite place – a combination of the sound of a knife breaking through the seal of a brand new jar of apple butter, cane syrup, or pickled beets, and the soft suction mud makes when you step in it barefoot – and felt something soft pressed against his lips, and heard his brother’s soothing voice telling him to open his mouth and suck.  
  
And even though he was at first hesitant to do so – because the palm of his brother’s hand was so tightly wrapped around the object, preventing him from seeing both its size and shape – when he finally parted his lips and gently bit down on the tip, he was rewarded with a sweet yet slightly bitter taste that pulled him down memory lane – bringing him back to lazy summer days spent wandering the woods by the river, climbing trees until the rough bark cut into the balls of his feet hard enough to draw blood, filling bucket after bucket with the bronze, dark purple, and black berries that stained their mouths like bruises and earned them several smacks from their mother’s wooden spoon when they would eat more of the berries than they would bring back for her to make into anything from jelly to wine.  
  
“Muscadines . . .” he whispered as his eyes opened and locked with his brother’s – his face expressing both intense gratitude and mild confusion. “But how did you fi . . .”  
  
Brown eyes sparkled as his brother pressed a stained finger to his lips, pierced a hole in another one of the berries, and drew the pulp out of its tough skin.  
  
And when he once again placed his hand along his jaw, he did so to pull him into a tender kiss, the dynamic flavor of the soft fruit mixed with the warmth of his mouth created the real taste of southern comfort – washing away all traces of the war that his mind had waged against itself, and satisfying every one of his cravings with a single touch.

**Author's Note:**

> A.N. So . . . what did you think? It made a friend of mine sick . . . Its definitely different? Don't really know what I think about it though. I really like it, it took a long time to research/write . . . Its either brilliant or fucked. . . .
> 
> Oh, and one of my sentences is 147 words long, and gramaticly correct. Beat That.
> 
> Much Love,  
> ~Shin
> 
>  
> 
> Written 06/09/2007.


End file.
